


A Truce

by author_morgan



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: F/M, because what a hunk of Spartan beef, its really just smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26014873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: Brasidas is willing to risk a chance of peace to have something so sweet.
Relationships: Brasidas (Assassin's Creed)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	A Truce

THE DUSKY AIR is heavy with the scent of incense and wine. Talk of war permeates the silence —a meeting among generals of Athens and Sparta. Discussion had been civil since the meeting began, but after the mention of a treaty in favor of the Athenian forces it quickly turned into raised voices and red faces. Among those is your betrothed, an esteemed general for Athens with a hateful streak wider than the Boeotian lake. Only one manages to keep a calm demeanor about him —Brasidas of Sparta. 

War and politics are considered a man’s affair, but it does not stop you from lingering in the shadows and listening. You pass unseen by all but one in the gathering. Brasidas has barely taken his dark and intense eyes off of you since he first noticed you standing near a curtain dividing the war room from the villa courtyard. The Spartan General is handsome, especially in comparison to you promised —who already has silver hair and sagging jowls. A fifth wife for the old general as his others had died by spring fever or on the birthing bed. Brasidas though, there is not a silver hair to be found on his head or in his thick brown beard.

Brasidas speaks with passion and urges for diplomacy when it is his time to speak —uncharacteristic for a Spartan. The gathering looks amongst themselves, weighing what had been discussed, but time is needed before any decisions are made and any papers are signed. A recess is called, and you slip from the room and back up the stairs onto a balcony overlooking the dark Aegean Sea. It would not have boded well for you to be seen eavesdropping. 

A rush of air as the curtain of the balcony is drawn alerts you to the presence of another. Turning you are met by the kind and warm —if not curious— gaze of Brasidas. He had sought you out, curious to know more about the hostess of the meeting. “Does political talk not bore you, my lady?” Brasidas asks, even the women of Sparta grow weary of talk after the first hour passes. 

“No,” you respond, shifting your attention back to sea, “my father was a lieutenant. I grew up listening to the affairs of men.” As his only child, your father had done well to raise you as an equal —he had little choice after your mother died before you could even walk. You spent many nights crawling over his vessel and clinging to his leg during meetings. 

The general smiles. It is a rare thing to find a woman so acclimated to the discussion of war. Brasidas knows you heard all of what transpired in the first half of the meeting —you had been in the dark shadow of the room since it began. “And what do you think of the proposition made?” He inquires. Athens sought to rob Sparta of Skioni —a small island _polis_ south of Makedonia and a valuable outpost for the Lakedaemonians. 

“Athens is trying to cheat Sparta,” you reply, it is not hard to see. The Athenians wanted to push the Spartans back and rid their growing sphere of influence of any Spartiate presence. After hearing Menexinos speak, you had not expected the Spartan generals to succumb so easily to a poorly worded and unenforceable truce. Brasidas steps up to your side, hands curling around the stone railing. 

You steal a glance at the general in the dying light of day —the setting sun bathes him in a golden light. “Do you not have a wife, Brasidas of Sparta?” You ask, surprised by your boldness, but for what other reason would he seek you out. 

“I do not,” he answers. The time for marriage was drawing nigh, but with the war, it was difficult to remain in Sparta for more than a day at a time when there were battles to fight and men to command. “And you do not yet have a husband,” he observes as you still wear a maiden’s veil covering your hair. 

His statement brings a wave of despair crashing over you like the waves on the rocks below. You have wished for Hades to claim your promised, even if it is wrong to do so. Hades has not answered nor has Hera. “Not yet,” you breathe, but that dreaded day draws sooner with each setting sun. The general feels a pang of misery rise in his chest for ever having brought the topic up. Brasidas turns to face you, his arms trapping you between him and the balcony railing, a gentle cage that you can break free of should you wish. 

But you do not move —you do not want to. Reaching out, you smooth over the Tyrian purple _himation_ draped over his shoulder, hiding a soft green _exomis_. All that is missing is the golden wreath atop his head from the relief of Methone. His head dips down and his coarse beard scrapes across your cheek, tickling. A warning before his lips pressed against yours, gentle if not hesitant. “Forgive me,” Brasidas breathes, but the apology is insincere. You slide your hand to the back of his neck, beneath a single braid, pushing up and pulling him back down at the same time. There is no hesitancy this time. 

“Brasidas,” you murmur, heart racing. The curtain to the balcony is drawn, but there is still a nagging voice in the back of your head saying _what if_. Brasidas silences that voice with another kiss, this one rougher and needier than the last. You gasp into his warm mouth when his hands grip onto your thighs, lifting you onto the stone railing. He keeps his arms around you, but pulls away to study your face. You blink, eyes hazy with lust. The general smiles, reaching up to brush your hair back. He leans forward, lips catching on your cheek in a light kiss, working his way to your ear. 

You moan, a tiny and strangled sound at the back of your throat, head tilted back. He takes your earlobe between his lips and teeth, nipping the delicate flesh and drawing another gasp from you —fingers clutching around his back. Brasidas pauses, a flicker of uncertainly in his warm honey eyes, but it’s chased away when you whimper, pleading with him to keep going. 

He slides his hand between your legs beneath your loose laurel-colored _chiton_ —the only thing you wear as the maiden’s hair veil as slipped off and fell to the churning depths of the sea— thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder in his arms and his hand moves lower, sliding his fingers against the warm, soft sex between your thighs. Brasidas laughs —a low, hearty sound— when your legs clench around him. He bends his head toward your neck, lips suckling where your pulses races. 

A soft sigh escapes your lips when he slides one of his calloused fingers inside you. Hooking his finger, he begins to thrust back-and-forth in slow measure. Keeping balance, you part your legs further to accommodate his wandering hand. Your hands rise form his back to find his thick brown hair, fingers threading into the short cut locks. Brasidas rubs his beard against your neck, moving back up to claim your lips again —already pink and swollen. He lifts one of your legs beneath the knee, slipping another finger easily into your warmth. “You’ve cast an enchantment over me,” the general breathes. For a moment he thinks you to be Hekate in the flesh. 

His fingers curl upward again, and you clutch onto his hair tighter, gasping —but then he withdraws them to your soft cry of protest. Brasidas smiles, lowering himself to the stone between your legs. Pushing your _chiton_ out of the way, you gasp again, the muscles in your legs tightening as he places a kiss to your thigh. It is a sight to behold one of the most powerful Spartans in Hellas on his knees before you. The general holds your legs open with a firm grip as he nips at your thigh, soothing the red mark with his tongue. The warmth of his mouth and cool sea breeze sends a tingle over your body. Brasidas draws slowly towards your center, tongue lazily trailing along your skin. 

Both you and Brasidas moan when he reaches your heat —lapping at your slick folds with his tongue. You shudder above him, hands wrapping tightly around the stone railing as his beard scrapes against the inside of your thighs. He tends to you eagerly, spoiling himself with the sweet taste. Chest heaving, you moan aloud when the general closes his lips over your clit, suckling on it and drawing a forceful shudder from you. But then he pulls back, nipping hard your thigh again. “Brasidas,” you whine as he rises back to his feet. 

Hurriedly, Brasidas pulls at his _himation_ , kicking the puddle of linen aside and unties the knot in his loincloth, adding it to the pile of fabric. He only wears the green _exomis_ now and the outline of his cock is evident —as are the lines of his muscles. He pulls up the hem of the short tunic, giving himself a few quick strokes before stepping back between your legs. Brasidas guides his hard cock to your warmth —watching you as he begins to push forward. You part your legs wider and he hisses behind clenched teeth. Hooking your legs around his waist, you grasp onto tightly behind the shoulder —holding onto him as though he is a lifeline. 

He draws his hips back then snaps them forward again, you moan drowned out by a burning kiss and the rolling waves. Clenching your legs around him, your nails dig lightly into his bare shoulders, seeking purchase as he rolls his hips into yours. Losing himself is too easy. Brasidas grunts and lifts you from the railing, turning to press your back into the rough stone wall next to the flowing curtain. You hardly notice, only focusing on the slow drag of his cock as he moves his hips again and again. The general looks at you, a beautiful sight in the throes of forbidden passion, face twisted, and eyes squeezed shut. 

Brasidas braces his hand on the stone wall and thrust harder. You tip your head back against the wall, tightening your legs around him. He feels your muscles tense up, quivering, reaching the edge of a precipice. Moving his hand from the wall, he slides it between your joined bodies, fingers finding your clit again, even as he thrust wildly with every quick roll of his hips. “Brasidas.” His name falls from your lips in a soft chant. Your back hits the wall, over-and-over again, but the scrape of the stone pales in comparison to the ecstasy. He surges forward, drowning the whispers and moans with another heady kiss. 

His kiss, the roll of his hips, and the pressure of his fingers rubbing your clit is too much. The coil that had been tightening in your belly since he first slid a finger into your heat release. You shudder, heels pressing into his lower back, nails scraping down his back —but Brasidas swallows all the sounds you make, still rutting into you. This had been an act of lust, though with the way he holds you it could be something more given time. A final thrust sends Brasidas over the precipice too, and the general collapses against you, twitching and moaning aloud into your shoulder —shaking deep within his bones. The sweat on his brow already beginning to cool in the evening breeze.

Your hand rises to touch his forehead gently and he blinks, drinking in your features in the last golden light of the sun. Brasidas brings his hand to cup your cheek. “Do you think anyone heard us?” He asks cheekily, grinning despite his tiredness. You swat at his shoulder, smiling even with the flush of color on your cheeks. He eases you back to the flat stone on shaky legs and bends to collect his _himation_ and loincloth —which he uses to wipe away the sticky warmth between your thighs. 

“What will you do now, general?” You ask, helping adjust his _himation_ to hide the red marks on his shoulder before the recess ends and negotiations begin again. He cups your cheek again, bending forward to take another kiss from your sweet lips. He is a Spartan and he will do what he must for country. 

Brasidas warm gaze flicks between the moonrise and you. “I’m going to fight for Sparta,” he pauses, thinking himself unwilling to leave such a woman behind, “and fight for what I want.” He steps away from you and draws the curtain to the balcony back, rejoining his countrymen and the Athenians. Brasidas of Sparta is a persuasive man and he will have what he desires. 


End file.
